


Black Tires, Glass Vials, Smokey Silhouette (Goodnight Camarvan)

by nic_takes_Ls (nic_L)



Series: Colour Wheel [2]
Category: DreamSMP (Video Blogging PRF), Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ARG references, Essentially this is the 'Wilbur Soot drives to Dream SMP and has a bad time but kinda funny' fic, Gen, Potion-brewing shit, Pre-Canon, Referenced Canonical MCD, SMPEarth references, SMPLive references, Smoking, The Camarvan, Wilbur Soot-centric, a driver's seat, alcohol mention, and ofc, featuring:, hints of past substance abuse, smoke, stal, vaguely angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28755549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic_L/pseuds/nic_takes_Ls
Summary: Wilbur's almost driven all the way to DreamSMP to move in by his almost-little-brother in his rather jacked up van.Or, hullo and goodnight, Camarvan.
Series: Colour Wheel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054070
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95





	Black Tires, Glass Vials, Smokey Silhouette (Goodnight Camarvan)

**Author's Note:**

> This is Mill's fault for making fuckcin rad art and Quin's for encouraging me fault is not mine goodbye *fades away* 
> 
> but yeah it's missing og L'Manberg hours
> 
> missing camarvan
> 
> missin alivebur (but that's abut to change lmaoo)

There’s a worrying crash from the back of the truck as Wilbur smashes his foot on the brake pedal and instantly is jolted forwards, head barely missing the wheel.    
  
  
He gasps for breath twice before prying his clenched fingers from the wheel and sitting back.    
  
  
“Holy- H-Holy fuck.”    
  
  
He raises his hands to his head and swipes his unruly bangs from his eyes. Barely a few feet from his front bumper is a sheep still peacefully gazing back at him, lying in the grass and with a half-chewed blue flower in their mouth.   
  
  
It blinks docilely.    
  
  
“Wh- What the fuck, did you not see how close I was to- To hitting you right then?” Wilbur shouts out his open window to the unfazed sheep. “You would’ve died!”

It baas.    
  
  
“Oh, sod off.”    
  
  
Wilbur sticks his head back through his window and shoves open his door, shoves the sheep to its feet and shoos it away before clambering back into his van and slumping into his seat.    
  
  
He can rest his face on the steering wheel for a moment, he thinks, before he has to check what is now likely shattered to shards in the back. Just a moment.

Then the moment is over and Wilbur slides from his chair and sighs before opening the door to the back and sighing.

“Thank Skies.”

There’s only an empty potions vial on the floor, intact and still crystalline-clear when he picks it up and peers at it in the shafts of light dancing down from the skylights.

Wilbur then walks over to a counter with a tray of similarly shaped bottles and sets the previously fallen one beside the others, hopefully safer now in case he needs to nearly break his neck slamming on the brakes again. He peers around the rest of the room.

His elaborate set-up of delicate brewing stands and connected tubes is fine, only shifted a little from their places. The shutters on the windows glow gold at the edges with reflected sunlight, but keep the inside of the room cool with shadow. A chest sits in the corner, and past it a door leading to his bedroom with an unused carnation-pink daybed that Wilbur often disregards, usually falling asleep in his seat and letting his heels rest over the top.

Wilbur almost leaves to head to the front again, to end up slouched back in his chair, but his boot scuffs something under the table, and he leans down and tugs out a box of cigarettes.

He hadn’t smoked in a good while, he thinks. Nearly two years nicotine-free, but before that he’d chain-smoked about a pack a day, weaving smoke into his lungs and into his breath and into his throat to line his soul.    
  
  
The pack is strangely heavy in his hands.    
  
  
Wilbur walks to the front of the van to toss it in his little garbage bin to dump later but his hand instead decides to tuck it under the driver’s seat for some reason, and before he can change his mind, Wilbur’s cranked up the van (with only a minimal amount of spluttering and hacking from the engine) and is moving slowly through the woods again, sun slowly slipping the sky and clouds a shade of orange.   
  
  
He flicks on his lights, red and bright, and eventually the sound of nothing but his gently rumbling vehicle and the ambience of the night starts getting to him.    
  
  
Wilbur taps his in-dashboard jukebox on, and an off-melody flute pierces his ears.    
  
  
“Is that really all I have in here?”    
  
  
Stal is obviously worn out from the years and crackles and pops at every groove in the disc. At least it’ll keep him awake.    
  
  
There’s a map spread wide atop the dashboard, weighed down with a rock Wilbur had brought in from outside after he’d gotten tired of having to hold the map still with one arm on the wheel, and in ink is circled a slightly bare little territory;    
  
  
Dream SMP.    
  
  
Tommy lives here now, and ever since Wilbur had to testify for his little brother over the phone, he’d been planning on moving near him, especially since Phil was planning to go back to his Hardcore world. Wilbur had lived in the emptiness of Newfoundland with only Techno and Phil in their Antarctic Empire half a world away, Techno gone most of the time for his fighting and Phil always (as always) ever so busy.    
  
  
So not long after hearing Tommy’s little ‘legal’ dilemma, Wilbur had spent a week trying to remember where he had parked his old-beaten-down van, and found it under a tarp underground and with all of his potion gear from SMPLive still set up in it.    
  
  
There was a pile of musty blankets from-  _ That _ period of time, when things were so very cold and collecting all he could to try to warm for half a second and when Wilbur had returned home to an empty house, was still dragging those blankets and flannels and one oddly soft bear fur and then tossed them all into a box with his potion making materials before eventually shoving that box into the back of the van and that was that, wasn’t it?   
  
  
But now Wilbur’s back in the van and he’s back in this seat and he’s trying not to end up crashing this thing into a tree.    
  
  
Stal makes a particularly horrendous noise, corrupted with time and age and dusty fingerprints, until it ceases making sound entirely.    
  
  
“Really?” Wilbur blinks at the built-in jukebox and sighs, foot easing up on the gas and hair half falling in his eyes. He opens his mouth to complain more to the void before a zombie throws itself on his windshield and he may or may not scream before ramming the vehicle into the next gear and subsequently shoving the zombie off and letting it crunch under his wheel.   
  
  
Wilbur stops the van and gasps for breath.    
  
  
“Is this my life right now?”   
  
  
He snatches up his wooden axe and a torch before slowly slinking out of the door and peers around the side just to check.   
  
  
There’s a indescribable liquid dripping off his black tire, now wet with-    
  
  
Probably brain fluid, if he’s honest.    
  
  
Fuck.    
  
  
Another long-suffering sigh and another head-pressed-to-steering-wheel break and then next thing he knows, it’s been hours since he was interrupted.    
  
  
The van somehow isn’t a bitter cold as the outside is, but a chill still seeps through and Wilbur takes off his jacket to lay over his legs in a simulation of a blanket. He ignores the knowledge that if he got up, he could grab one of the many folded in his chest.    
  
  
His tea’s gone cold and the cream trying to separate, but Wilbur still takes a sip every time he feels his eyes close enough for his lashes to give the world a blur effect, and he contemplates taking a swig of vodka he knows is somewhere around here before he resolves to just get past this one stretch of forest, this one swathe of trees.    
  
  
The stretch is one he doesn’t appreciate as he finds himself nearing the edge of a river. Wilbur groans as it comes into view. He’ll have to build a bridge across, he thinks, until suddenly his engine splutters and a coil of heavy smoke dances from the front of the van.    
  
  
“No. No wait, really? I knew it was in bad shape but-”   
  
  
Wilbur stops the vehicle and clambers out of the seat and out the door before throwing open the hood and immediately having a coughing fit.   
  
  
“Fucking fuck-” He stumbles back and sits on a rock before coughing nearly half his lungs out.    
  
  
Wilbur lifts his head after to gaze sullenly at the grey van and sighs.    
  
  
“I’m never going to be able to get this thing to move again, am I?” 

He looks behind himself at the water, lets his eyes dart all over his reflection with the orange vest and dark circles and bitter-turned lips. He thinks his expression answers himself.    
  
  
A distant groan of a zombie echoes in the woods, and Wilbur stands up, slams the hood of the now-useless vehicle with a bang.    
  
  
“This was supposed to be like a caravan,” He complains to his own shadow. “Was supposed to be able to drive all around and inside Dream SMP. But now-”   
  
  
Wilbur turns back to the shape of the hilltops ahead.    
  
  
“Oh.”    
  
  
At least the city itself doesn’t seem too far, a glitter of faraway lights on the crest of the hill and a tiny slice of buildings silhouetting the sky relay the settlement’s location.    
  
  
“At least it isn’t too long a walk. Tomorrow.”   
  
  
Wilbur clambers back inside the van, doesn’t bother to make his way to the back and simply sits in the driver’s seat, tosses his feet up on the dash.    
  
  
There’s one of his old blankets at his side and he pulls it up and over his shoulders. He shoves the map and the rock holding it in place to the floor, sets the mug of cold tea on the floor. Sighs.   
  
  
“Goodnight van- Uh, caravan- Cam- Camarvan.” He mumbles to himself, and then grabs a quill with not-quite-dry-yet ink and scribbles on a half-crumpled scrap of paper.    
  
  
“Goodnight Camarvan.”    
  
  
Wilbur drops the pen, shoves the paper on his dashboard, and rolls over and goes to sleep. He'll wake up and surprise Tommy with his visit tomorrow.  


* * *

  
He ends up sleeping in that seat for the next few weeks, while others eventually move in and sleep in ‘his’ room, set up beds of their own around the motionless van.    
  
  
It turns into a habit, somehow, whispering under his breath a ‘Goodnight Camarvan,’ one that only Tommy’s heard and ends up repeating half the time.    
  
  
  
The Camarvan sits in that one still spot and is soon surrounded by walls, walls of stone and of yellow and soon enough gets tucked in the walls of Wilbur’s heart, something affectionate in his gaze upon it. 

  
For a while it wears a flaming shape atop the roof, another time a small remodeling.  
  


It stands through a bombing and a betrayal, damaged but not gone, and then it stands as Wilbur and Tommy are ousted, is left empty and abandoned and gets nearly torn down.    
  
  
A festival is held and a stray firework manages to shoot through a window, flies right out the other side.    
  
  
Wilbur comes back to it, once. He’s not supposed to be there, but he opens the door anyways and lets his gaze flit over the desolate wreckage of it, the absolute state of disrepair it’s sunk under.    
  
  
He reaches under the driver’s seat; a pack of year-old cigarettes is ripped open and lit, smoke floating from one end and being exhaled from his lips.    
  
  
He pushes open the door to the inside and walks slowly through the back.   
  
  
Glass covers the floor like a dusting of stars, glittering cruelly in the moonlight by the shattered windows. There’s still one of his blankets in the corner folded.    
  
  
Wilbur stays and smokes and eventually raises his wrist to his face to watch his communicator strike midnight, to strike the 16th.    
  
  
He makes his way to the door.    
  
  
“Goodnight, Camarvan.”   
  
  
He returns once, with many others, and they all watch a man die.    
  
  
The van somehow lives through the fire and flames and a filicide. 

  
It does not live through Techno and Dream, ten days short of two months later, and as Tommy watches it burn, he whispers too;   
  
  
“Goodnight, Camarvan.”

**Author's Note:**

> HULLO!! YELL AT ME IN THE COMMENTS!!! <3
> 
> also the sheep at the start is in fact friend later uwu


End file.
